Conan and the Lagacy of Vathalos
by Sw0rd Slinger
Summary: Conan, joined by old friends and new, faces mystery and danger at every turn as he challenges a wizard over the fate of his very soul in this thrilling adventure.
1. Chapter 1

" _Between the times when the oceans drank Atlantis, and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, sword in hand, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to trod the jeweled thrones of the Earth beneath his sandaled feet. It is I, his chronicler, who knows well this saga. Now let me tell you of the days of high adventure…"_

Milling crowds thronged the streets of Belverus, the marble columned and monument-filled capital of Nemedia. Through this throng marched a tall, muscular youth, an alien air hung about him. Not unusual in the great city that saw merchant trains and mercenary bands from Turan and across the Vilayet Sea to the east, from as far south as dark Kush and shadow-cloaked Stygia, and from Aquilonia and Zingara in the dreaming west. Among their civilized counterparts, many wild and barbarous men of the northlands sought to escape the dreary slate-grey skies and barren cliffs of the northern mountains. He was of this northern stock, of Cimmeria, the youth, whose icy blue eyes looked out over the shorter, leaner Nemidians from under his square cut sable mane.

He stood before the House of a Thousand Orchids, the last of his gold having dripped from his fingers into the purses of hot-eyed doxies for no more than a night's pleasure. A few of the women, upon sighting the Cimmerian's berth of shoulder, cast their vixen-eyed stare on him as they remembered his free spending the night before. Many of them arranged the strips of cloth, or gilt brass platelets on their ample breasts, that revealed more flesh than they hid, in an effort to lure him back into their nest. He was temped, sorely so until he remembered the weight of his purse. Though significantly lighter than it was the day before, his purse still held a fistful of silver, enough for him to make do at an inn on the Street of Regrets for the night before riding back to his free company in Ophir.

Shading his eyes from the midday sun, he looked again over the crowded street. Many men from many more countries filled the streets of Beleverus. Yet, still, he could not find the elusive figure of the bowlegged Hyrkanian he was looking for. Then his wilder-bred ears caught the slight sound of the slow scraping of metal on leather that would have been lost to ears of civilized men in the perpetual din of the city. In a rarity, a blade rested at his neck before he could draw his own sword from the shagreen sheath resting at his waist. "Dinner for wolf?" a familiar voice in the accents of the Mideast asked, before the blade withdrew from the youth's neck.

The youth whirled around on the man that had managed to take him by surprise, throwing his arms around the other's shoulders in greeting. "Subotai!" he near shouted, and gave a mirthful laugh at the sight of the Hyrkanian thief. "By Crom, Lord of the Mound; it has been ages since we parted ways! I had not thought to see you again."

"Civilization seems to have stolen your edge, Conan," the shorter man said, sliding his scimitar into its sheath at his side as a smile spread his mustached lips. "I could not have done this when we first met. In the name of the Four Winds, it is good to see you too old friend. I've had a devil of a time trying to track you once I was well enough to travel."

"And what kind of thief would I be if I were easy to track?" the Cimmerian replied. "A thief easily followed is a bad thief, and a bad thief is a dead thief—and I have no intention of kneeling before the headsman's block."

"Indeed Conan, I expect nothing less from you. But come, let us find a tavern and tell each other of our adventures." Subotai clapped the big Cimmerian on the shoulder. "Old Man," the Hyrkanian cried in the direction of the brothel, and from the shadowed doorway came the slight, stooped figure of a wizened Chinman, whose skin was the color and texture of aged parchment, clad in a robe of animal skins and necklaces adorned in bones. It was the wizard Akiro. He backed away from the House of a Thousand Orchids, chuckling gleefully and waving frantically farewell as he did so, to a gathering of strumpets clad only in streamers of silk a mere two finger's breadth wide, if they were clad at all.

Conan, though pleased to see his friends, could not help the grimace that crossed his face. He had had more than his fill of wizards of late. More than many men would have in all their lives. By Crom, it was more than any man should in the entirety of his life. Still, the wizard was his friend, as proved by standing at his side in battle. The Cimmerian decided not to burden his mind with worries of what could not be helped. All that mattered, for the time, was that he was among friends. He was among friends and he would drink with them, "Come, Wizard, we are off!"

"Where to, Conan," Subotai asked.

"We make for the Sign of the Gored Ox on the Street of Regrets." The big Cimmerian began walking and the others fell silently in step beside him. As the three men walked through the masses of Nemedia's capital, an air of menace seemed to hang thick in the air, as though it shadowed them. Nearly half way to the Gored Ox, Conan, disconcertingly felt an itch between his shoulder blades—not an itch of a physical nature, but rather more of a primal precognition of danger. The hackles began to rise on the back of the Cimmerian's neck as the preternatural feeling intensified. He lengthened his stride in haste, forcing his companions to quicken their own steps in order to keep pace with him.

As they walked, Conan began looking about warily, casting his ice-blue gaze, cold as the northern snows, over the citizens in the streets, carefully scanning them for any threat they might pose. Most carried nothing more than belt knives, and some few, with the look of bodyguards or fighting men about them, wore swords or axes or cudgels and their hands never strayed far from their reach. But that was not to say one was any less dangerous than the other. If boldened enough, a baker could spill a man's guts just as easily a solder. And a bag of gold oft made men bold enough.

After what seemed as hours, to the Cimmerian, he and his friends came to the Street of Regrets. The Street of Regrets was the last above the slum known as Hellgate; as such, it was a myriad of contradictions in that it was were those souls that found themselves debased, clung to with fervor to keep from falling further into depravity, where those who managed to pull themselves up from Hellgate sought sanctuary from a respectable life they did not understand. The few who truly pulled themselves up from Hellgate to the modicum of the Street of Regrets and beyond never returned to cross that threshold again.

As with any other street of its kind, musicians filled the air with sounds from lutes, zithers, and flutes frantically competing for the favor of the crowd against jugglers, tumblers, fire eaters, and other sorts of street performers each working their art. Trulls only half clad in thin bands of silk, lasciviously paraded through the throng, their offered wares no different from those of any other strumpet. Each hungrily eyeing the purses of those few fools from Upper Town, too well-dressed, even begrimed as they were, to blend with the motley crowd, come down to witness the supposed depths of degeneracy before retreating to the pampered life in their manners and palaces.

Once he entered the Sign of the Gored Ox, the ethereal itch left Conan's shoulders, and in doing so, a great burden felt as though it had been lifted from him; giving a near imperceptible sigh, his broad shoulders sagged some as an inexplicable lethargy crept over him. The inn was as he remembered it to be from his last time under its roof. The common room stank sourly of stale wine, yet that was no deterrent as women on a raised stage at the far end gyrated their hips enticingly in tune to hammered dulcimer, mostly ignored by the men who sat about crowded tables their minds set fully on drink or dice.

The Cimmerian and his companions found empty seats at the far end of a nearly deserted table, the opposite end of which was occupied by a mustachioed Argosian, his salt weathered face out of place so far inland. Sitting across from him was a dark skinned, hawk nosed Iranistani, in loose pantaloons, and bare from the waist up save for a vest of indigo cotton, who peered about suspiciously as he spoke to the yellow-haired man. At the Argosian's side, was a woman leaning over his lap, allowing him to stroke the supple curve of her ample hip, and to grip the side of her generously swelled breast, a fixed smile on her face and light laughter escaping from her pouty lips as he did so. Her chestnut hair, tinted amber in the light of the torches overhead, framed her heart-shaped face before descending past her shoulders and bosom, down her back. Though dressed as such, in a burnished brass halter and silken ribbons, she did not belong to the sisterhood of the night. Conan's eye quickly caught the hard air about her, the same air that had radiated from his beloved Valeria. No, the woman was no mere prostitute, but a fighter. And hard as any he had ever seen.

The woman tossed back her head, a ruckus peal of laughter met Conan's ears and the Iranistani rose, his face livid, veins jumping out on his neck in rage. Staring down his hawk-nose at the Argosian, his hand flew to the curved scimitar bound at his side. In an instant chairs clattered to the wooden floor, and steel flashed, a ringing clang filled the air as honed edge met against honed edge where the Argosian's head had been. The yellow-haired man backed away from his attacker, shoving the woman from his lap with one hand while parrying the wild slices of the other man's blade with noting more than a dagger, before reaching out and slamming the other's sword into the wooden planks of the table.

The denizens of the inn took little notice of the altercation, save for those who felt themselves too close for comfort to the conflict; they effortlessly slipped away to join other, already overcrowded tables. Extracting his scimitar, the Iranistani lunged over the table, swinging wildly at his foe. Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted at the Argosian, "Think do you to spear my honor so and live? Whoreson dog, you and your jade shall know the vengeance of Dellaam's blade! You will choke on your own blood, spawn of a goat! You will—"

The hawk-nosed Iranistani's words cut off as a blue-gleaming flash buried itself in his neck. It was a shuriken, one of the many deadly, star-shaped throwing knives of the Far East. The Iranistani's hand clamped to his neck in an effort to hold in his life's blood welling up beneath it. His eyes goggled in realization of death's chill embrace as he stared disbelieving at the woman, another of the weapons in her hand, ready to let fly. And she did. With a whip-like motion of her arm, the missile leapt from her hand and sailed through the air, striking true in the man's windpipe.

The Iranistani fell back, collapsing to the floor in a heap. "Who will choke on their own blood? Mitra take you, swine," she spat, in a Zamoran accent though her features spoke of an Aquilonian heritage, as she walked around to the dying man. She stared down in revulsion, watching the light fade from the man's eyes, and then bent to retrieve her weapons from the limp corpse. As she did so, three more Iranistanies, dressed likewise in pantaloons and vests, but with their heads wrapped in turbans, burst from the anonymity of the crowd, each bearing a curved tulwar in their hands. The three men, moved with the tigerish ease of experienced fighters, standing apart from one another, with legs braced wide, and knees bent. As one, they closed on the woman. The closest of the Iranistanies, tall and wiry, swept his tulwar in a high, wide arc, forcing the woman to duck. The second man, wide and large-bellied, though light-footed for his bulk, came at her low from the opposite side, in an effort to throw her off balance as the first spun away, and allow their companion to strike at the opening unhindered.

Yet the woman did not move as they expected, rather than being driven into their trap, she lithely sprang from her crouch, in a low back flip. So low in fact, that no sooner than her palms touched the wooden floor, so too did her arms to her elbows, whipping the rest of her body back from her attackers. Just before the rest of her body hit, she thrust her arms forward, heaving herself up to land in a low, wide-legged crouch. And just as quickly two more shurikens materialized in her hands.

The Iranistanies undeterred by the astonishing display of acrobatics again closed ranks on the woman, only to find the mustachioed Argosian at her side, features cast in determination, his dagger flitting in and around the tips of their tulwars with all the speed of a striking cobra. Despite their being three to two, the Iranistanies were out matched.

Conan was amazed at the display of skill to say the least. Still with no hesitation on their part, the turbaned warriors rushed forward. The woman swung her right arm as a windmill, letting loose the shuriken in her hand. It imbedded itself in fat Iranistani's swordarm, allowing the Argosian to bat aside his tulwar with ease, and then driving his dagger home to the hilt in the man's dark skinned chest. The crimson liquor spurting forth as the blond man wrenched free his blade. Twisting gracefully away from the tall Iranistani's lunge before whipping her left arm out, the woman's other missile sped from her hand, biting into the third Iranistani's leg, causing him to stumble. Quickly the Argosian knifed him once in the back, and then slit his throat.

Only the tall Iranistani remained. He looked about wildly. During the exchange, which had lasted less than a minute, he had reversed positions with the woman and the Argosian, and they now stood between him and the door leading out to the Street of Regrets. A worrisome sweet broke out on his brow, running down his long, hawkish face. Again, he eyed the crowd, and fixed on something. Moving with untold speed, he reached into the surrounding denizens, and plucked from them one of the serving girls that had been moving about before the fight broke out, holding his tulwar against her neck.

"Back, or I slit the wench's throat," said the turbaned man, his curved blade pressing harder to the girl's flesh.

"Crom!" Conan snarled an oath at the man's cowardice. The Cimmerian had no compunctions about taking hostages for ransom, nor of running from a pitched fight. The Iranistani could have fled up the stair, or through the kitchen in search of his reprieve, but to take a hostage for no other reason than to bay death. It was inconceivable to one raised in the far northern crags of Cimmeria, where the specter of death loomed over each step.

Though she resisted him, the Nemedian girl's struggles were as nothing to the hardened thews of the wiry man. The woman's face contorted in rage; she reared her arm back, ready with another of the exotic throwing knives. "No, Jasmine," barked the Argosian in a rough voice, throwing his hand to her shoulder, staying her attack, yet still glowering at the Iranistani.

In that time, in a great pantherish stride, Conan had come up behind the Iranistani, clamping his hand like a vice around the dark man's wrist. Almost instantly the tulwar fell from nerveless fingers, pent up blood, the flow pinched off by the Cimmerian's powerful grip, throbbed painfully in his benumbed hand. The shock of the action alone, made him loose his hold on the girl. He was further shocked by staring up into the barbarian's eyes, which burned with cobalt fire. With the girl free, Conan hefted the Iranistani overhead, and hurled him at the far wall, where he impacted heavily with a meaty thunk.

"By Mitra!" the woman swore, turning her baleful scowl and her shrunken on Conan, "What right has a stupid barbarian like you to interfere. This matter was not your concern."

"I made it my concern," the Cimmerian said gruffly, unperturbed by her demeanor as he crossed his arms over his chest, then he added in the Aquilonian tongue with a dangerous undertone, "I would be carful of calling a barbarian stupid; unlike civilized men, we do not take such insults lightly."

The woman—Jasmine—backed away a step in shock. In venting her fury, she had not expected such a response from the barbarian. But seeing his opening, her companion stepped forward. The man stroking his oversized mustache in contemplation as he studied the wilder man in front of him, "Do not mind, Jasmine's manner; she is quick tempered and filled with the pride of youth—much like yourself I would guess. Unless I am mistaken you are a Cimmerian, are you not?"

"Indeed. My name is Conan," he responded. He saw now the Argosian appeared to be of his middle years. The Cimmerian knew, however, venturing on the high seas could age a man before his time. To judge by appearance was a mistake of civilized men. Things were not always as they first appeared, requiring keen eyes and a shrewdness to see beneath the veneer.

The Argosian extended his hand and Conan took it, "Good! Good, I am Arkonn. And I could use your help, Conan, seeing as I had to dispose of my last partner."

"Then you are a poor judge of partners," commented the Cimmerian, kicking one of the dead Iranistanies which lay dead and all but forgotten on the floor. Arkonn blinked a few times as if trying to decide whether the statement was an insult, a jest, or just was, and then began to roar with laughter while motioning to Conan to sit. He declined the offer, "No, I cannot. I am only in Belverus to meet old friends. I have only this time with them, for I must soon return to Ophir."

The blond man unwilling to relent pressed on, "Why, what I seek is in Ophir, Cimmerian! You would be taken from your way no more than a tenday at most, and be all the richer for it. It is no mere trove of jewels of which I speak. What I seek makes the legendary Teeth of Gwahlur seem a pittance in comparison."

It was now Conan's turn to roar with laughter. The Argosian's claims were wild beyond belief, and yet they held a hint of truth to them. He would not speak of it, but Conan had indeed found and sacrificed the lost treasure of Gwahlur, and ten times that had already passed through his hands in his short life. Gems and jewels of all sorts, from the Eye of the Serpent, to the Elephant's Heart, had found their way into his hands and just as quickly out of them. Many had brought with them a plague of wizards, priests, and demons. This would be no different. Yet, as he began again to decline the Argosian's offer, the hackles on his neck stirred acutely.

A curdled scream broke though the din that had reclaimed the common room. The dead Iranistanies were rising to their feet. Their bodies moved jerkily and with a sluggish malaise, bones crackling at the joints as they were unnaturally animated. As they rose, blood, black and crusting with age, frothed from their gnashing mouths. Cold eyes, clouded white with death were rimmed in red as they fixed on the Argosian. The lips of the first Iranistani, the one who had been sitting at the Agosian's table, curled back as if to speak, and for a moment, naught but a rasped gurgling issued from his mouth. Then a voice came forth, no louder than a whisper, yet it echoed as though shouted through the mountains; it was not the dead man's voice. It was the voice of another, "Think that you can escape your debt to me Arkonn of Argos! Your doom is writ; your tricks only prolong the inevitable and worsen your fate. I had wanted to send you into oblivion's embrace swiftly, but now you shall suffer! You shall know immortal torments as I feast upon your soul, and the souls of those you have enlisted to aid you, starting with the woman!"

With that pronouncement, the Iranistani's eyes flared brightly, crimson vapors rising up from the now empty sockets, and the twisted mouth of the corpse widened even further as a mist of the crimson hue spilled forth, winding a serpentine path towards the Aquilonian woman. With the speed of a cobra the mist struck, and the woman writhed in agony; her curdled screams filled the common room, as her back arched impossibly far, bending almost double. Her arms and legs twitched madly with convulsions. No one intervened, transfixed by the unnatural display of sorcery.

All save one. A knife appeared buried in the corpse's chest; it had been thrown from high on the stair, if the angle was judged true. Though the corpse paid the knife no heed, that small disruption was all that was needed for the wilder bread instincts of the Cimmerian to break free of the primal fear of the unknown, and to charge at the twisted abominations that had once been men. As he did so, his sword all but leapt from the shagreen sheath at his hip into his swordhand. Blood drummed in his ears, drowning out the pallid screams of the woman. A wild and frenzied roar broke from the Cimmerian's lips as his first strike arced up in a diagonal swing, cleaving part way through the first corpse's outstretched arm. Conan's fingers numbed slightly, unexpectedly from the jolt of his blade biting in the creature's arm. Rather than flesh, it felt as if he had tried to hack through a tree! "Crom," the Cimmerian cursed, wrenching his broadsword free. "Crom and steel!" he roared as he swung again, straining his mighty thews to put every ounce of power into what should be a killing blow. Conan's blade connected with the thing's neck and he gritted his teeth near to breaking in an effort to hold on to his sword as his already benumbed fingers became nerveless.

The clotting miasma flowing from the corpse's mouth lessened as its head was severed by the Cimmerian's strike, though the head did not roll off as expected. At first it seemed as though the attack had not phased the creature, as the head turned to face Conan, slowly the crimson mists began to dissipate, but not before striking the Cimmerian. In that instant, pain wracked his body; his whole body seemed set on fire, lightning raced over his muscles as they convulsed, and his bones were strained nigh unto breaking. Then Conan's eyes rolled up and his vision was filled with white. And then he knew darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Conan woke to pain. The Cimmerian felt as though he had spent a day on an inquisitor's rack. Every fiber of his muscles danced with white-hot embers. His throat was parched and breath came to him with short, rasping gasps; his vision was blurred as he groggily sought to identify his surroundings. He seemed to have no more strength than a newborn kitten. His muscles trembled in testament to his weakness, as he barely managed to raise his head to see over his chest. He could only discern the vague shapes of men as an indistinct darkness against a lighter backing. A cup pressed to his lips and within he found chilled water, sweeter than he could fathom, which he swallowed greedily as it spilled forth into his mouth.

As the water continued to pour down his throat, the Cimmerian felt his fatigue and soreness wash away, and a burgeoning sense of vitality took root in him. With a modicum of his strength resorted by the sweet water, his vision began to return to him. Conan now recognized his surrounding for what they were: a room in the Sign of the Gored Ox. Undoubtedly the Argosian's, as the bed he lay upon, with its feather-filled mattress, was of a finer fair than many he had slept in. His suspicion was confirmed when his vision cleared enough and he noted the Argosian sitting near a second bed, another man in ragged leathers with his back to the Cimmarian knelt at the side of the bed, holding a small hand in his own.

Immediately he was reminded of the woman, and strained to sit up, his muscles violently protesting their sudden abuse as he did so, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow as he forced himself higher. Half way to his goal, he felt a hand press on his chest. Despite himself, Conan could not will any more strength from his overwrought thews, the sinew rippling in exertion as he tried to rise further. Seemingly, without effort, the hand pushed the Cimmerian back down to rest on the bed. In spite of his protests, the hand held him firmly in place.

"Easy," the gruff voice of the wizard called out, "You do yourself no good without rest. That miasma stole more from you than your physical strength, Cimmerian. It has siphoned away, and consumed a portion of your life force. A condition most severe." He leaned over the Cimmerian, worrying over him as a nursemaid, before letting an irritated grunt, "My powders and potions can do only so much to speed your recovery, but you must let the time for them to take their course. They will have no benefit to you if you do not allow yourself to rest."

"The girl," Conan croaked out, the water the wizard had given him doing little to soften his throat. A heavy grunt was the wizard's only reply. Looking away before handing the Cimmerian a fresh cup of water, the aged man had a reticent cast to his features. A cast which was quickly sculpted away to a bland face of neutrality. It was the look of a man ready to view death. It was the look of men with the ghoulish task of preparing the dead for the afterlife. And he did not dwell on it.

Thirst, unsated, beckoned to him from the depths of his raw throat. Now, able to move his arm, though somewhat sluggishly, the Cimmerian quickly quaffed the contents without thought, before handing the cup back to the wizard, a silent demand for more of the rejuvenating concoction on his rough features. Another, larger cup found its way into the Chinman's hand. Without head, Conan again drank down the proffered medicine, nearly choking this time on the unexpectedness of sour wine and musty herbs. He stared suspiciously at the empty cup, his mood much like the wine, as though weighing the vile taste against his thirst. He risked another cup.

"Tell me!" he demanded at last, grinding his teeth in frustration as he fixed the old man with the icy blue stare of his northern eyes. Rest be damned. He then gripped the side rail of the bed and began to pull, levering up on his side. With his arm under him, he pushed rising slowly but steadily towards a sitting position. Weak or no, by Crom, Conan would will himself to his feet and if need be force the wizard to answer his question. Further up he pushed, lances of pain racing through his over-taxed muscles as he labored to sit upright.

The bed rail having come within reach of his other hand, the Cimmerian wrenched himself erect with a great burst of effort. His chest heaved with each deep breath as he gasped for air to steady the room as it tilted violently before his eyes. His skull now pounded with the booming beat of a galley's oar drum. He ignored it. Planting his feet firmly to the floor, he heaved with all the might he could muster in his weakened condition, springing to a stand to loom threateningly over his friend, with much the same fierce cast as a wounded tiger.

"She is not dead, for now," the Chinman finally answered with grim undertones, "Like you, she needs rest, to let my powders take hold and regain her strength, if such is possible for her. Exposed to the miasma as she was, I fear her condition is far more grave than your own. Her soul inhabits her body no longer, and if not restored soon, she will pass into twilight and become a wraith—a creature trapped between life and death—cursed with no will of their own and bound eternally to serve whomever wields their soul. This same fate could befall you, Conan. Though you still have your soul, Cimmerian, it is tethered to another in the nether-realms of the dead. You know of whom I speak—Valeria. Once already this bond has pulled her soul through the veil back into our world; just as it has done this, so too can it pull your soul through, dragging you beyond the grasp of mortality. Now, more so than ever, must you conserve your strength, or risk damning yourself and Valeria to the fate of the undying."

A frown, deeper than his usual scowl, crossed the Cimmerian's countenance, as he contemplated this news. To die was of little concern to one of his wild, northern blood. But, to be consigned to exist as a shade of his former self with no will of his own? It grated against all he believed. At birth Crom gives a man live and will and nothing more. As his people believed, it was to all men to exert their will and take from this life all the joy, pleasure, and wealth they could, for there was no life beyond death, only a vast infinite grayness in to which Crom would cast those too weak of will to enter Valhalla. To have one's will stolen—usurped by another's—was the worst form of hell the Cimmerian could conceive.

The wizard turned from the big youth, towards the other bed, mixing a white powder into a fresh cup of water, then knelt down to administer the concoction to the woman as she slept. The old man continued his examination, muttering and grunting in his native tongue as he did so, a sign of irritation with the man at his side, who refused to move from his place.

The man was of standard Ophir stock. Short height, lithe of limb, and fair of complexion. A cloth band wrapped around his head holding back from his brow a light mop of thinning yellow hair. Bearing a not-so-threadbare tunic and leggings of Nemidian cut, the look of him did not impress. The look of as true a thief as any Conan had met; the look of a man who could disappear into a crowd at a moment's notice. He gazed forlornly at the delicate hand in his own, patting it softly. Slowly the low, docile tones of an Ophir lullaby reached the Cimmerian's ear. In the undulating, throaty tongue is sounded more a dirge.

It was then that Conan noticed Subotai standing near the door of the Argosian's room. His nerves no longer flamed, rather they had set to the dull coolness and tingle of a sleeping foot. With effort he made his way over to the Hyrkanian, and with a grunt laid his hand on the other man's shoulder, "What know you of our new friends, Subotai?"

The shorter man looked up at him with a haggardness that had aged him well beyond his years, "Little and less, old friend. Only that the third of their company is called Malak of Ophir, and that he loves the woman—Jasmine she is called—with a devotion I have not seen from his kind before. Our host claims this Malak is the best thief in all Shadizaar, a wicked city rife with those who make that allegation."

The Cimmerian chuckled, "Let him claim so then!—I know the truth of that matter. I have heard of this Malak, and a good thief he is. If the story is true, he made off with a noble lady's jewels from under her nose, while she was wearing them no less! And not a cry of alarm, seduced as she was by oafish charm, until she awoke the next morn and found her precious baubles gone and him from her bed with them.

"Baugh," the Hyrkanian grunted, dismissing the tale, "We need not his kind, if all he steals is stories. I have heard that tale told thrice before and each time the man telling claimed the center roll. Lesser thieves, trying to steal the glory of their betters; it is his kind that gives ours their bad name."

"I thought our kind gave themselves a bad name?" the Cimmerian chuckled again, "We are thieves after all, Subotai. And thieves by and far, by their nature, are a bad lot."

"Thief, he may be, Conan, though he seems a fool if you ask me."

A simple "Indeed," was the Cimmerian's response. He had seen many men who were as fools, tripping over their own feet when out of their depth, yet within they were masters of their craft, forces to be reckoned with, akin to those of nature. He had seen a ship master stand firm on the heaving prow of his galley against serf, gale, and storm only to founder drunkenly on solid land once reaching port. And then there were the mysteries of those who acted in their sleep. One such man, Conan had met, could barely use a belt knife without cutting himself in the waking world, but come sleep and he would rise from his bed, don armor and sword and practice until sunup, then doff his trappings, return to bed and wake none the wiser of it.

"And what of our host, this… Arkonn? What know you of him?" Still weekend, the Cimmerian eased himself to lean against the wall conserve what strength he had regained. He would heed the wizard's advice, but only after he knew his course. He would not let others dictate it for him. It was not his way and never would it be. It was too deeply ingrained in his soul. Crom gives a man life and will and nothing more!

"I do not trust him, Conan. He says he's an honest trader and, a fortune seeker from time to time, but only if he can find truth behind the wild stories. Every question I ask, the answer is near enough the same—'Trust me' he says. I will trust him only as far as the reach of my dagger!" As he spoke he began fingering said dagger, stroking it more as a lover than a weapon.

The Hyrkanian had picked up a bad habit. Men who did such things tended to draw their sight short, and act on rash impulses. Such a thing was the taller man's natural instinct though. In his time in the south he had learned some to curtail that particular instinct as it had caused him more trouble than it solved in these southern kingdoms of civilized men. A queer thing, men should insult one another through open words then break bread as fast friends in the name of business, only to fight to the death as bitter enemies over taking an extra pinch of salt for a bland meal. Such things were beyond the understanding of wilder-bred men such as Conan. Not so much his Hyrkanian friend. Although thought of as such this far west of the Vilayet Sea, he was not a true barbarian, but a son of civilized men. Men made hard by the unforgiving land of the Steppes east of Zamora and Brythunia, but still civilized.

"Has he said what this treasure is that he seeks now?" The Cimmerian's voice rasped once more as his throat began to dry again. He swallowed a cough, pressing on, "Or of the sorcerer we are against?"

"He says only that it is a hoard uncountable, that the trove we took from Doom's tower is but sand in comparison," the bow-legged man snorted in derision. "Of the sorcerer, he says only that he is a pretender outcast driven from Stygia with little true magic. A renegade clutching at strings of myth, and of no import other than he seeks also this treasure."

"Any magic we face is too much magic, by my reckoning. It helps though, that we have magic of our own to face this Stygian with." He let a long, heavy sigh, to still the pounding of his head. If what he had experienced in the common room was the extent of the Stygian's power, he was still a foe best not trifled with, and he dared not think of forces that could set him to flee. The merest thought of it made the young Cimmerian's hackles want to rise.

Yet, trifle he must, for the sake of his soul. And for the girl's. For Valeria as well, for the warrior woman deserved her place at Crom's side. The mysteries of the ethos, their understanding and consequence were out of his depth. Beyond even his conception, with only his knowing to guide him. And what Conan knew was of the physical world. He knew what he could hold in his hands. He knew the embrace and passion of women. He knew the weight of gold. He knew the strength in his arm. He knew the edge of his blade. He knew sorcerers, for all their claims of power, were only men. And he knew all men died. Doom's severed head proved that.

His great shoulders heaved as Conan lifted himself from the wall turning to face into the room. Frozen blue eyes locked on Arkonn. His stride sounded strong on the floorboards, announcing him as he marched over to where the Argosian sat, a cup of wine in his hand. With a reddish cast to his countenance, he seemed more drunkard than seafarer. He blinked in surprise as the Cimmerian's shadow crossed him. Looking up at the big northern youth, he fumbled at the wine crock next to him to offer a drink.

Wordlessly, Conan's hand flew to the Argosian's throat, clamping there with ease. He then hefted the blonde man from his seat, slamming him against the wall. The cup fell from his grasp, wine splashing across the floor. Arkonn struggled feebly against the barbarian's iron-thewed arm, a long flow of wine and fear at the suddenness of this assault conspired to weaken him as he continued to scramble at the arm which held him firm.

"You will tell me what you know of this treasure you seek," the rasp in his voice added a deathly undercurrent to his words, "which you claim is beyond measure of worth, and you will tell me what you know of this Stigian sorcerer I must now face. Do so satisfactorily, and I might consider not throttling you after."

"In the name of holy Mitra, I swear to you, Cimmerian," he exclaimed in choked breaths, his hands working in a futile attempt to remove himself from the larger man's grasp, "I have told all that I know to your man, Subotai. I have naught left to tell."

"You have not told all you know to me," Conan snarled, squeezing the Argosian's throat tighter to emphasize his meaning. The seafarer's reddish countenance began to purple as life slipped from him under the Cimmerian's iron fingers. At last, with a great labored breath, the man acquiesced to his demand for information.

Slowly, his fingers withdrew from the other man's throat. The Argosian rubbed at his neck protectively, making a show coughing for his stolen breath. Taking up the crock from the nearby table, he drank deeply, before clearing his throat. "As I told your friend," he started, and then reconsidered at the sound of Conan's knuckles crackling in his clenched fist. "As I will tell you: I am a trader of cloth and spices. I am also a man of learning—a scholar. There is much knowledge left by those who came before us. With this knowledge comes a power few men will recognize and fewer still can appreciate. It is a power that can be used to topple kings from their thrones, or to build a hoard of gold without limit. This power is Truth. All legends have in them a grain of Truth, Cimmerian; and with the writings of old, I have learned those Truths. One of those has told me of a repository of such knowledge, untouched by the ravages of time. The sanctum of the sorcerer, Vathalos.

"It is this sanctum the Stygian wishes to defile, with which he may reap his vengeance, and ascend to mastery of the Circle of the Black Ring. Through that dark coven will he then claim dominion over all peoples of this world! But he cannot enter those sacred halls. Not without the key to the crypt. It is this," Arkonn held up a necklace of animal teeth and gold rings. "The Amulet of Vathalos. Through his great store of knowledge Vathalos made his amulet both map and key, and locked himself within. His amulet was sent with a disciple to the farthest reaches of his world. That disciple was Epometrius, the selfsame who in ancient times fought against the great serpent, Set, and banished Him to the abyss.

"And the name of this Stygian wizard?" Conan demanded with short gruffness, folding his muscular arms across his chest threateningly. Having regained more of his strength, he loomed over the Argosian.

"Of his true name I know not—yet, calls himself Imho-Amon," the Argosian's face strained in conviction of what he said. Holding up his hands—weakly at that—as if to fend off an expected attack, he continued, "He is not of true Stygian blood, but rather a Kushite; nothing more than the pretender to a dead linage. And for this he was exiled from the Circle of the Black Ring."

"Pray tell, how come you to know of this?" the Cimmerian inquired, a wicked gleam in his icy northern eyes.

"Because, it was I," stated Arkonn, "whom the dog hired to find Vathalos' lost amulet. And I, in turn, hired Jasmine and Malak to steal the amulet from a Zamoran noblewoman, whom herself, was unaware of its import, and wore it as costume to play at being of a southern kingdom-tribe. Little did he suspect at the time, my true intent to claim the sanctum for myself. I was to collude with him a tenday ago to turn over the amulet for a mere thousand gold coins—sand before the true value of Vathalos' repository. I've no doubts, my fee would have been paid with steel twixt the ribs had I delivered the amulet per our arrangement. Now, we are set against this sorcerer and must reach the repository before him if we are to save Jasmine and yourself from his curse.

"Then we will find this repository, this Sanctum of Vathalos," Conan said with gritted teeth, "and we shall dispose of this wizard, be stygian or Kushite once and for all. And by Crom, Lord of the Mound, should our paths cross again afterwards, Argosian, my blade will find its way through your heart. But, until then we are partners—a full share of the spoils."


End file.
